


Hell's at Heaven's Door (For All the Lifetimes)

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blindfolds, Case Fic, Charity Fic, Dom/sub, Drugged Sex, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Illegal Potions, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Pretend Dom/Sub, Pretend Slave, Riding Crop, Undercover, Undercover as a Couple, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order to find out the truth about the dangerous, illegal potion The Silver Apple, Ron and Draco must go undercover as a Dominant and his submissive. But when Ron loses Draco, it's Neville who must come to their rescue, and extract both Boys safely while completing the mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell's at Heaven's Door (For All the Lifetimes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deirdre_aithne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_aithne/gifts).



> This fic was written as a charity fic for a bid in fandomaid after Superstorm Sandy. I loved the prompt, and had an awesome time writing this fic (which came out a bit longer than the 10k the bid was for!). So much love for this prompt! As always, JK Rowling owns the world and characters of Harry Potter; I just like to play with them.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE that this fic has some seriously dubious consent and off-camera non-consent.
> 
> EDIT 2014-01-08: Fixing French language typos.

**_Now_ **

 

Draco has lost track of exactly how long he has been here.

His name, in this place, is David. Or Boy.

Most often, it is Boy.

He tells time by the tracks of the whip across his back, by the strike of a palm against his bare bottom. He knows days have passed by the light that peeks around the edges of his blindfold just before it is taken off and he falls into bed and blessed sleep until dark falls again.

He has forgotten almost everything else, except the salient points.

He repeats them silently as he wakes into the night:

 _I am Draco Malfoy_.

_I am an undercover Auror, and I seek the Silver Apple._

_My partner is Ron Weasley, and I trust him completely._

Every night, he says the same thing.

And every night, he has to wonder why Weasley has left him. Why Draco is working alone, undercover in a house of ill repute in southern France, tracking an illegal potions ring.

Weasley will come back.

He has to.

 

 

**_Three Days Prior_ **

 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy, hold still. It’s just for one night, yeah?” Ron twisted the chain in his hand, tugging the ends together at the back of Malfoy’s throat until they clicked. “Oi, yeah, there you go. It’s not like it’s bloody well real, you know.”

“I know.” Malfoy pushed his hands away, slapping at him when Ron tried to check the choker. “Piss off, Weasley. You don’t actually own me and I can dress myself. I’m not entirely helpless, you know.”

“I know.” And Ron did know that, now that they’d worked together for the last five years. He hadn’t been well-pleased when Malfoy had shown up in the Auror offices, two years after the war, _insisting_ that he was going to become an Auror. But he’d been top of his training class two years after that, and five years down the road was now one of Harry’s top choices for field assignments. He’d been partnered with Ron for the last three years, ever since Harry made Head Auror, and the two had done brilliantly together after a bit of a rocky start.

But Malfoy made for a prickly partner, proud and irritable. He stood in front of the mirror, carefully untwisting the gold chain until it lay flat against his throat. Ron touched it with his wand, murmuring the spell to make it contract and seal, managing to finish it before Malfoy twisted away again.

“It’s not real, but bloody hell, Malfoy, you’ve got to make an effort here.” Ron’s hands were on his hips as he glared at his partner. “We’ve been watching the place for days, and if they don’t believe I own you, they’ll take you away.”

Malfoy smiled thinly. “Then let me be the dominant, Weasley, if you don’t think you can _pretend_ well enough.”

“Oi, you, I’ll have you well in hand.” Ron cuffed Malfoy’s head lightly. “Now finish getting yourself dressed, since you’re so bloody determined to do it yourself.”

It wasn’t as if Ron didn’t have plenty to do himself. He refused to go the route of trying to intimidate by wearing leather. This was going to be hard enough without Ron laughing at himself and feeling like an idiot in some ridiculous getup. No, Malfoy had the costume to wear; Ron simply had the finest robes money could buy, and absolutely nothing on underneath.

Malfoy on the other hand—Ron tried not to watch him dress, but it was nearly impossible not to notice his partner. At twenty-seven, Malfoy was no longer a skinny, underfed pale child. He had bloomed into a young man with perfectly alabaster skin, his torso long and lean and covered in muscle. There was no fat, but Ron couldn’t see ribs either, and he knew from experience how much quiet strength Malfoy carried. Ron might be taller, but Malfoy had the speed and strength to take him down when they sparred for training.

That was the reason Ron had insisted Malfoy take that part: Ron would have looked ridiculous. No one would have believed him as a quiet but proud submissive, but Malfoy could play the part perfectly.

Ron stepped in close, batting at Malfoy’s hands. “Stop it, you can’t reach the buckles on your own.” The leather harness was complicated, but managed to show off Malfoy’s torso, highlighting the scars and turning them into rough war wounds that attracted attention. The Dark Mark had faded from the original stark black, but the shape was still etched in cursed scars along Malfoy’s forearm. Ron barely noticed it any more; Malfoy had earned his respect.

The leather trousers, however, Ron couldn’t help but notice those. They were like a second skin, and Ron knew Malfoy didn’t have any pants on beneath them. Just leather and skin, and a spell between the two to avoid chafing. It let the leather outline every hard plane and curve of Malfoy’s body. Ron had a feeling that if he looked carefully, he might be able to tell if one bollock hung lower than the other, and which way Malfoy preferred to tuck when getting dressed.

(Left)

Bloody hell, Ron wouldn’t look. He _wouldn’t look_. It was all for play, right? Just one mission, in and out of the bloody sex club, find out who the bloody hell was supplying the Silver Apple, then get out and bring in reinforcements for the sting.

“Knut for your thoughts, Weasel.” One eyebrow arched delicately as Malfoy’s mouth twisted, amused. “Or are you simply overcome by the feel of my arse in this Italian leather?”

Ron jerked his hand away. “I’ll redden your arse later, you wanker.” The insults were without heat, more fond than antagonistic by now. “Just thinking about what if one night isn’t enough to get the evidence we need. You ready to pretend this is a lifetime thing and keep going back?”

That eyebrow rose higher still. “If you’re asking me to be your permanent slave, Weasley, the answer is no. But if it takes more than one time going into this club, then that’s what we do. I highly doubt you can possibly inflict more pain than my aunt ever did. You have nothing to fear; I shall act as your perfect submissive.”

Ron flashed a grin. “It’s going to be fun making you crawl, Malfoy.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much,” Malfoy drawled. “After all, I’m quite certain we’ll find a way to switch places on a future assignment. And I assure you I shall _not_ forget this. Every indignity, it shall be repaid.”

In answer, Ron simply clipped the leash to Malfoy’s chain and tugged once, sharply. “We start now,” he said, making his voice firm. “When we arrive, I want you on your knees as soon as we step inside that door. I own you now. And don’t forget it.”

#

Ron leaned back in his chair, carefully lazy. Malfoy was at his feet, one hand on Ron’s thigh, slid beneath the robes and touching skin. And Ron couldn’t deny that it felt good. The way Malfoy’s cheek rubbed against his robes, the soft fabric sliding over Ron’s skin, not to mention his fingers, deftly teasing without climbing too high.

Ron let his hand rest on Malfoy’s head, idly toying with the soft, pale strands. They were the image of a dominant and his submissive, and Ron’s half-hard prick, outlined by his robes, only served to help their appearance.

“I don’t remember seeing you here before.” A man dropped into the chair next to Ron, Malfoy sandwiched between their legs.

Malfoy twitched, his fingers gripping Ron’s thigh more tightly, easing only when Ron’s fingers drifted down to the nape of neck. Ron wasn’t sure whether Malfoy took it as a warning or comfort; bloody hell, he wasn’t sure how he’d meant it to be taken in the first place. “First time,” Ron said easily. “We’re tourists.” As if his British accent didn’t give him away.

“I was born here,” Malfoy murmured in perfect French, and Ron cuffed him for the insolence of speaking without permission.

“Once more, and I will cane your bum until it bleeds,” Ron threatened, fingers twisted tightly in his hair. He locked gaze with Malfoy, and smirked slightly at the frustration and fury in those grey eyes before he let his attention return to the man next to him. “Forgive my Boy; he’s excited to be back in France.”

“Born here, you say?” It was as if Malfoy had never spoken, his words attributed to Ron instead.

This man was their mark — Francois Dentremonte, the one they suspected of moving illegal potions through his club and back into England. Ron needed to hook him and reel him in, get him to trust them and offer them the potion.

“Born in France,” Ron confirmed. “In the northern bits. He’s been in London for the last ten years, and I told him that if he were particularly good, I might bring him with me on my trip. Imports,” he said, with a sigh of ennui, as if his job were that deadly dull. Ron rather suspected that working in imports _was_ deadly dull, but it also carried with it an air of importance, and more importantly, an idea of galleons in the pocket and ready to be spent on things that were exotic and different.

Like Silver Apple.

The potion had gained the nickname due to its colour and its scent, like bitter cinnamon apples. It had taken London by storm, then spread throughout Britain. It seemed to be innocuous at first, a little bit of a hallucinogen and a little bit of _fun_ according to those who used it. Illegal, yes, but something for the Hit Wizards to take care of, not something requiring a full scale Auror task force.

Until the first young wizard died from it.

He had leapt from a bridge, claiming that he could fly. His friend stood there next to him, watching as he fell, absolutely positive that the boy had wings.

It was the third girl, the one who had _told_ them both that they were birds rather than men, who felt the worst. They hadn’t known until then that the potion not only gave hallucinations, but made those under its influence extremely susceptible to suggestion. Even the smallest, tiniest of suggestions that seemed completely innocent. 

There had been seventeen deaths so far in Britain, and one hundred and three in all of Europe, many of which had been less than accidental. Ron and Malfoy were only one small part of a task force that had spread out over Europe, determined to find the root of the potion ring and bring it down before more leaked into Britain.

“He’s a pretty thing,” Francois mused.

Ron tucked two fingers under Malfoy’s chin, tilting it up. “Isn’t he? It’s the skin. You should see how well it marks under a switch. Or even a hand.”

“Twenty galleons for a try at it.” Francois smiled, and Ron hated that look. Hated the way he looked at Malfoy like he was another thing to collect.

Ron shook his head swiftly. “For a hundred you’re welcome to watch.”

Francois gestured at the club around them. “You are in a club designed for such activities. Anyone could watch.”

“Not if I don’t choose to share.” Ron hooked one finger beneath the collar at Malfoy’s throat, tugging him closer. “He is mine, and as I have said, one hundred galleons if you’d like to watch. And a private room.”

Francois stood, brushing his robes smooth. “Eighty. And if you’ll follow me?”

Accepting the offer without a counter gave the upper hand to Francois. Not accepting it meant losing the tenuous connection with their mark. Draco’s hand on Ron’s knee squeezed, and Ron took that to mean that he agreed: they would give on this point and follow Francois.

They moved more slowly than their mark, Draco crawling on hands and knees, trailing like a pale pup at the end of his leash. They cut a pretty picture, the contrast sharp between Ron’s robes and Draco’s skin. When they reached the side of the room, Francois waited, a door held open as he motioned them inside.

“We are entirely private here,” he informed them as the door closed. “This is my own room, and is not available for viewing, at any price.”

“And others are?” Ron raised one eyebrow in what he hoped was a good imitation of Malfoy’s most haughty expression.

Francois merely laughed. “Of course they are. No matter what one person pays for privacy, another might pay more for the privilege of seeing beyond that veil. But this is mine, and it is well warded, I assure you. Your Boy will be ours, and ours alone.”

“He is mine,” Ron said sharply.

“As you say.” Francois settled on the sofa, his robes stretched tight across his body as he lounged. One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Anything you might wish to use within this room is clean and safe. You and your Boy will come to no harm.”

The room had several cabinets, the doors and drawers all closed. There was a bench to one side, where Ron could see the shackles that would hold Malfoy in place if he were bent over it. He ignored the rack against the wall; while it would display Malfoy well, Ron knew this had to be more about dominance by personality than submission. He had to prove to Francois that he was a dominant male, not merely a sadist gifted with knots and bindings.

“Boy, kneel,” Ron ordered idly, pointing to a spot in the center of the floor. He did not watch, trusting that Malfoy would follow orders as had been discussed. Instead, Ron went through the cabinets, seeking out implements that he could use on that fair skin. Malfoy would be healed that night, once they were back in their room; Ron had no worries about actually injuring his partner.

He found a cat o’nine tails, the handle thick and braided, with long and supple tails. A quick flick showed it to be swift moving, a sharp crack at the end when the tips of the tails struck. He tucked a crop under one arm, and let the cat fall across his shoulder as he continued looking through the cabinets. 

Ron wasn’t interested in the sexual toys. He had magic for anything they might need, and this wasn’t supposed to be about sex. This was purely for show.

When he turned around, Malfoy was kneeling in the exact spot Ron had pointed him to. His hands were behind his back, his knees spread, his head bowed. Ron couldn’t help but see everything in this position, Malfoy’s trousers so tight that his thickening cock was pressed against them, clearly outlined.

He dressed left. He most _definitely_ dressed left.

Ron swallowed and dragged his attention away from the sight, moving to Malfoy’s back instead. The leather harness left it almost entirely bare, a pure wash of pale skin threaded with silvered scars. Ron was already familiar with those scars; he’d seen them in the locker room or on assignments a hundred times. But this time he could give in to the odd impulse to let his fingers drift over them.

Most were slender, a spiderweb of curse damage done to Malfoy during the war. But two were thicker—a long line that crossed his shoulder blades, and another that intersected that one, running from the base of his neck on the left down his back to disappear under the line of his trousers over his right hip.

Malfoy’s muscles twitched as Ron let his fingers drag over the thicker lines, nails digging in for just a moment to press red lines into the skin.

“Obedient,” Francois noted. Ron tried not to jump at his voice.

Some bloody Auror he was, forgetting there was another bloke in the room. Bloody hell. Ron took in a slow deep breath and let the crop drop into his hand. He’d had to practice, knowing he’d be going undercover, but he’d never switched an actual person. Still, he knew the technique, the way to make the end crack against the skin. He knew he’d raise welts, but hopefully not break the skin. And he knew Malfoy was expecting it.

It didn’t make it any easier to draw his hand back and twitch it out, using his wrist to twist the crop, putting just the right amount of snap into it. Malfoy swayed beneath the strike with a low sound, and Ron’s breath caught, heat pooling in his groin.

The welt was small, a thin red line not even a knuckle length along, made by just the tip of the crop. Ron wanted to touch it, to see if it was hot as he’d been told it would be. But with Francois leaning forward, watching with interest, he didn’t want to stop, not yet.

He raised his hand again and let the crop fall, striking across Malfoy’s shoulders to leave a red line behind, stark against the scar. Ron’s breath caught at the sound Malfoy made, and this time he didn’t let him rest, striking again, then again. Each time Malfoy swayed, each time he made a small sound with the movement.

And the entire time Ron could see that prick, trapped against Malfoy’s leg by the tight trousers, growing thicker and longer until it looked like it ached.

“You like that, don’t you, Boy?” Ron murmured, pausing long enough to thread his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. Francois was forgotten, silent and off to the side. The world had narrowed to Ron and Malfoy, the new dominant and his obedient submissive. Ron crouched next to him, one hand under Malfoy’s throat to tilt his head back. “Answer me, Boy. Do you like that?”

Malfoy’s silvered eyes had gone a dark charcoal grey, the pupils blown wide and dark. “Yes, Sir.” His voice was hoarse and rough, and Ron saw his hands clenched tightly together, holding so hard that the fingers had gone white, at his back. “Please do it again, Sir.”

There was no begging note in the voice, simply a matter-of-fact request, and that affected Ron more than seeing Malfoy beg would. Malfoy’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, pink and plump and wet, and Ron’s gaze followed the damp path of it. Ron touched his cheek, thumb brushing against those lips. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Boy?” he murmured.

It was hard to think of it, that Malfoy would like the pain of this. Ron had asked him once about the scars on his back and had received the short response of _my Aunt_ and nothing more. Ron _knew_ Malfoy had been through hell during the war, that he’d been punished. But when the discussion of this assignment had come up, Malfoy had never faltered over his part in the charade. When Ron had asked about the pain, Malfoy had looked at him and responded blandly, “After the number of times I experienced the Cruciatus Curse, I highly doubt you can inflict enough pain to bother me.”

There had been a shine in his eyes then, a silver light that Ron hadn’t understood. Now, however, he had a feeling he might know more about it.

He remembered Francois, and flicked a glance to see him leaning in close, mouth slightly open. This was all for show, and that show had to be perfect. Ron closed his eyes a moment and leaned in, catching Malfoy’s lower lip in his teeth, tugging sharply until Malfoy gasped. Ron let his tongue smooth the small hurt, and tried not to think about how Malfoy tasted of coffee and liquor from earlier in their room.

He shouldn’t be thinking about how Malfoy _tasted_ at all.

“Get up, Boy,” Ron snapped, the crop cracking across his shoulder blades. Malfoy shot to his feet, stumbling with his hands still behind his back. Ron didn’t give him time to find stability, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him to the sofa.

He bent Malfoy down over the back of it, using the cushions to prop up his chest. “Hold on,” Ron ordered. It put them on display right next to Francois, giving him the perfect view. Ron reached around, twisting open the buttons on the tight trousers, opening the fly to free Malfoy. He pulled them down just enough to bare that pale arse, to let his cock spring free. Malfoy’s hips swayed, cock _almost_ brushing the back of the sofa before Ron smacked that arse to remind him of his place.

Ron’s fingers drifted lightly over the smooth skin, and he tried not to look at the crack, at the way it spread slightly with Malfoy’s feet set wide apart for balance. He could see (if he looked) the dark pucker that wasn’t quite hidden away. He could see Malfoy’s bollocks swaying slightly, and the thick red prick.

Instead of stroking, he raised his hand and let it fall, feeling the smack of skin over skin. It reverberated into his hand, stinging his fingers.

It left a print against Malfoy, red against white. Ron’s hand lifted away slowly, sliding over the edges of that stain. His voice was rough as he asked, “Should I mark you, Boy? Do you want my mark tonight?”

The answer was scripted, but Malfoy hesitated. Waited. And in the end, said nothing, his head bowed.

Ron gripped his hair, twisting roughly as he yanked his head up. “Answer me. _Do you want my mark_?” There was only one correct answer an obedient submissive would give, only one that Ron could accept.

“No,” Malfoy whispered. 

Ron reached out a hand, the cat o’nine tails flying into it. He curled his fingers around the handle, feeling the heft, the way the heavy leather strands swayed with the movement as he pulled his arm back. He released Malfoy’s head, and it fell forward, lolling as his body stiffened in anticipation.

The strike was different than the crop, the way the strands pulled against his hand, snapping out, flicking over Malfoy’s back in several places. Tiny welts form, little red dots of heat against that skin. Without a word, Ron struck again and again before letting the cat come to rest.

“Let’s try that again, Boy.” Ron took a steadying breath. “Do you want my mark?”

Malfoy refused to look up, and Ron imagined he could hear the smirk in the response. “No.”

“Your Boy seems to have forgotten his training.” Francois tilted Malfoy’s head up, examining him. “He is a pretty thing, but if he cannot remember his place…”

“He will remember.” Ron twisted the fine strands in his fingers, yanking roughly. “Won’t you, Boy? Do you remember, or do I have to remind you?”

Malfoy’s chin tilted, jaw strong and set. He said nothing.

Ron’s gaze drifted to meet Francois’s. “I’ve heard obedience can be bought for a price,” Ron said.

“Is that so?” Francois shrugged. “You could simply beat it into him. It would be a shame to destroy such fine skin, but that is what healing potions are for, are they not?”

“Beatings never work when the Boy enjoys them.” Ron kept his breath even, his expression calm. He couldn’t arse this up now, not when he was this close to getting what they had come for. “He just needs a bit of help to _remind_ him of his place.”

“Such obedience does not come inexpensively,” Francois murmured. “Are you quite certain you can afford it?”

Ron smiled thinly, mimicking a smile he had seen grace Malfoy’s lips more than once throughout their partnership. “Quite.”

Francois withdrew his wand, executing a complicated gesture that Ron couldn’t hope to remember, unlocking a cabinet on the far side of the room. Neat vials of silvered liquid shimmered in rows; one slid from its holding space and flew into Francois’s hand as the door closed behind it.

Ron reached for the vial, but Francois held it back.

“Of course.” Ron dug into his pockets and withdrew a tidy sum. The Ministry had planned for this; the purchase was what would begin the evidence in their case against Francois. It was only to be expected that some money would be spent, then recovered later from the illegal holdings.

Francois took the galleons and counted quickly, before setting them aside. When Ron reached against for the vial, Francois stopped him with one finger in the air.

“Non,” Francois said sharply. “You do not know the dose.”

Before Ron could react, Francois grabbed Malfoy’s face, twisting him to look his way. He placed the uncorked vial at his lips, tilting it until the silver fluid slid over his lip and into his mouth. Malfoy’s eyes widened, and he struggled, pulling back when Ron intervened, shoving Francois away.

“What the bloody _fuck_ are you doing, interfering with my Boy?” Ron growled. He pushed between the two, ignoring the thin drip of silver droplets down his robes, over his hand. “You did not ask permission, nor did I grant it. This is _my_ Boy, and until I agree, you do _not_ lay your hands on him. Eyes and eyes alone, as we agreed.”

Francois raised his hands, the vial held delicately between thumb and forefinger. “You purchased goods. I only sought to properly deliver them. The Boy is yours, as ever, and I do believe you will now find him quite biddable.” He gestured. “Please, do go on.”

Ron pointed at the chair, trying to control the quiver in his hand. This had gotten out of his control and he needed to somehow regain his position. He couldn’t let Francois guess that he was unnerved. “You’ll sit there, not on the sofa,” he snapped. “I don’t want you near him.”

He waited until Francois settled himself before turning back to look at Malfoy.

The potion had already taken effect, leaving Malfoy’s pupils even wider than before, his iris barely a silver slit around the dark centers. There was a flush to his cheeks, and his mouth was open. As Ron watched, Malfoy wet his lips with his tongue.

Ron swallowed hard, and fought against his own reaction. “You want my mark, don’t you, Boy?” Voice hoarse, he phrased his question as a suggestion.

Malfoy nodded, his back arching up. “I want your mark.”

It was exactly as they’d planned, except Malfoy was never supposed to have drunk the potion. Ron would have pretended to give it to him, then palmed the vial as evidence. Malfoy would be clear-headed. They would finish this, leave Malfoy’s arse red and striped, and a pattern across his back, and they would be _done_.

“Please your master, Boy,” Francois murmured, raising an eyebrow when Ron shot him a dark look.

“I only want to please my master,” Malfoy echoed. “I want your mark. Please mark my skin.”

There was nothing for it now; Ron had to mark him properly. He ran his hand down the cat o’nine tails, and the spell came to him as he did so. As his fingers stroked the suede, the tips sharpened, the edges harder. When he flicked it, those tips licked at Malfoy’s skin and left thing red lines in their wake.

This would mark him. It would raise welts and leave scratches across that pale skin. It would show that _Ron_ had been there, that he had taken the time to mark him properly.

The first lash fell hard, and Malfoy swayed, crying out. Ron didn’t hesitate before the second, nor the third. With each strike, Ron exhaled, a rough sound that left him light-headed and aching for air. There wasn’t enough here in this room; it was hot, it was stuffy, and Ron couldn’t think. He couldn’t feel. He couldn’t see anything but the stripes against skin.

The cat fell to the side as Ron reached out, freckled fingers brushing against red marks, leaving a silver sheen in their path. Malfoy arched into the touch, whining as he curled like a cat seeking scritches. Ron let his hand flatten, feeling the heat of the welts beneath them, the way they were raised in a complicated pattern etched across Malfoy’s skin.

“Kiss your master.”

The words sounded far away, and Ron knew he should say no, but then he had Malfoy’s lips on his, a tongue pushing in and begging his own to come plunder in return. He tasted sweet apples and wine, chocolate and a faint trace of vanilla and cinnamon. Ron’s hands slid down to grip Malfoy’s arse, fingers tight over the ridged welts until Malfoy whimpered and fell into the kiss again.

“Please your master.”

Ron licked his lips as Malfoy dropped to his knees, hands sliding beneath Ron’s robes. This was not part of the script. This was not expected, not needed, not… he couldn’t think it was not _wanted_. Ron ached for it, was desperate for release. “Boy.” His hands tangled in that hair, pulling Malfoy to a stop. They had to control this scene again.

“Don’t you want it?” Francois tilted his head, one finger pressed to his lips. “Don’t you want to feel that sweet mouth wrapped around your cock?” 

Yes. Oh dear Merlin, _yes_ , that was exactly what Ron wanted. And as Malfoy’s slim fingers found his prick, he groaned, pressing forward, letting him suck him down. He had marked Malfoy and now he would fill his throat, fucking his sweet mouth until Ron cried out and Malfoy had to swallow.

It should have been the end, then. It should have been time to go, to be done with this club. Time to collect money from Francois for observing, and to take Malfoy back to the room for healing.

But Ron heard the door open. He heard someone say _something_ and it sounded so _reasonable_ that he couldn’t resist. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful Boy sucking his cock again? What man wouldn’t want a lovely canvas to play with, to tease, to paint red stripes on as he wished? What man could ever say _no_ to the perfect Boy?

#

Ron woke sprawled across the bed in his hotel room. He was naked, as was the slim blond man in his bed. Blond, not silver hair. Pale skin, but not alabaster. The man snored faintly, a rasp high in his sinuses, and Ron tried to remember how this had happened.

Vague moments in time came back to him, but nothing solid, nothing coherent. Nothing he knew was for certain past the moment that Francois gave Malfoy the Silver Apple.

Malfoys lips on his, he remembered that, and the taste that gave him. The slick feel of something sliding over his fingertips, the silvered sheen against the marks on Malfoy’s skin.

Ron had taken the Silver Apple, transferred from Malfoy’s mouth.

And Ron had lost Malfoy to Francois.

The stranger in his bed stirred, rolling over to look at Ron with a smile, and Ron simply stared at him. “You need to forget about me,” Ron told him, because there was nothing for it now, not if he was going to have a chance to get Malfoy back. He couldn’t risk information about who he was—any more details than he already had—being fed back to Francois.

“Je comprends.” The man lay back, his hands behind his head, eyes wide open and waiting.

Ron gripped his wand tightly; this was his least favorite part of being an Auror sometimes. But the job required what it required, and he suspected this man knew exactly what he was getting into when Francois had brought him into that room. Ron sighed. “I’m sorry.”

He touched the man’s forehead with his wand.

“ _Obliviate_.”

 

 

**_Now_ **

 

Draco has come to loathe the taste of apples. Apple brandy. Apple compote. Rich, spiced apples drenched in cream that drip down his chin to be licked away by someone he cannot see.

The blindfold is tight. Familiar. It is slipped over his face when he wakes, removed only once he is back in his darkened room.

They call him _La Pomme d’Argent_ and whisper sweet things at him.

He is a pretty Boy. A darling Boy.

He is their _thing_ , their toy, their sweet _pomme_ to play with as they please.

They taste apple from his lips.

They never touch him. Not _there_.

But they strike his body until he sway with the blows. They bind his wrists and raise them above his head, letting licks of flame fall against his skin until he cries out. Until he aches.

Then they put him in his room to rest.

He never touches himself.

They tell him that he doesn’t want to, and he believes them.

#

Silk slides over his skin, draped at first, teasing him. “Please,” he whispers, wanting more than that soft touch. 

“You want to be whipped, don’t you?”

He knows that voice, knows it so well. He comes to him every night; he whispers things that Draco wants. Needs. Draco nods, because there is no other answer he can give.

“But first, I think you want to be dressed prettily. Like the beautiful boy that you are. Be a doll, and stand for me.”

Draco comes to his feet, hands hanging loosely by his sides, and waits. He can imagine the clothes as he is dressed. The corset that pulls in at his waist and gives him the illusion of hips. The soft camisole beneath it, then the dress that is tugged down over his head, the skirts full and slit, the neck scooped low to show the top lacy edge of the corset. His hair is curled, his face painted where the blindfold does not hide. The lipstick tastes of apple, too.

“Do you want to be put on display, my pretty Boy?”

 _I am Draco Malfoy_.

_I am an undercover Auror, and I seek the Silver Apple._

_My partner is Ron Weasley, and I trust him completely._

Draco draws in a slow breath, and repeats those phrases inside the privacy of his own mind again. And again. Until he can make himself believe those words, somewhere in the depths of his memories.

Then he nods, because there is nothing else he can do. He is a doll to be played with. “I would love to be put on display,” he murmurs, the words pulled from his lips.

 

 

**_One Day Prior_ **

 

Neville arrived to find Ron pacing the confines of his hotel room. He pushed the door open when Ron called out for him to come in, then pushed it close behind him. Arms crossed, he watched. Waited.

Ron finally slowed, turning to look at Neville. “Am I to be disciplined?” His voice was hollow, the bruises around his eyes dark from lack of sleep. Skin was pale, his freckles dark against it. He stiffened under Neville’s regard, back straight, hands clenched by his side.

Neville nodded once. “When we get back, yes, you and Malfoy will both be disciplined. You’ve jeopardized the operation, and jeopardized each other through your actions. You’ll be facing the disciplinary board once we’re all back in London. But for now… right now… we need to get Malfoy back, and get the evidence.”

Ron’s expression was unreadable. “I have some evidence. I preserved my bloodwork from the morning after and sent it on to Headquarters.”

“I saw.” Neville approached Ron slowly, careful as he reached out to pull his mate into a one-armed hug, fingers tangled in his hair. “Oi. Ron. It’s going to be okay. We’ll get Malfoy out safely. Why the hell did they want him, anyroad? Malfoy’s a prick most times.”

“Not after the potion.” Ron’s breath was a warm huff against Neville’s throat, his body tense in the embrace. “He was fucking suggestible. The perfect Boy. I was just shite as his Dominant. We should’ve traded places; he should’ve been the bloody Dominant. Not me.”

“Oi.” Neville twisted his fingers in Ron’s hair, tugging his head back to look him in the eyes. “It’s not entirely your fault. But you need to tell me what happened, and how you got the potion into your system.” He walked Ron to the sofa, dragging him down onto it, and waited.

The longer Neville stayed silent, the more Ron said, and the more his body language admitted. The twist of his fingers tight together, white at the knuckles, belied an affection and worry for more than a partner. Neville let his fingers drift over Ron’s back, felt the arch into that touch, felt the need for assurance. 

“You shouldn’t have kissed him.”

Ron laughed, short and sharp. “Bloody hell, Nev, I know that. There’s a lot of shite I shouldn’t have done with Malfoy, and I did. And he couldn’t argue against it, and I didn’t want to. Fuck.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. “Fuck. I’m attracted to my sodding partner, and he’s going to fucking well kill me when we’ve got him out of there and he’s back to himself.”

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t be attracted to him.” Neville gave a sharp thwap to Ron’s back, right between the shoulder blades, and waited patiently for him to look up. “I said you shouldn’t have kissed him. Then and there, when you knew he’d been given the potion. You ought to’ve known it was on his lips, and it might get into your system as well, and that’s what compromised the operation. Not that you kissed Draco bloody Malfoy.”

“They’ll say it’s my attraction that arsed this up,” Ron muttered.

“Yeah, they will.” Neville couldn’t sugar-coat that, not really. “But it might be what gets it fixed, too. Because we have to go back in, and we’re going to have to do things differently this time. So is it just attraction, or are you willing to do anything for him?”

The flush that spread across Ron’s cheeks, lighting them on fire under the freckles, gave that answer away before Ron slowly nodded. “Whatever you say, Nev. You’re saving both our arses by coming in to clean this up.” He paused a moment, his lip caught between his teeth, before he cautiously asked, “How much of it does Harry know?”

As Harry’s second in command at the Aurors, Neville shared most things with the Head Auror and his best mate. But this one… he hadn’t been sure how Harry’d take it. So he figured he’d write up the report after the fact, let it go until then. “Not much, yet. He knows Malfoy’s been stuck undercover, and you need help extracting him. Didn’t think he needed much more than that right now.”

Ron nodded. “So. What’ve you got in mind?”

“Problem is, they already know your face there.” Neville’s fingers drifted over Ron’s back, idly touching him. “You’ll need a proper cover, so I’m thinking perhaps your Boy wasn’t yours to lose. And you’ve been taken as a replacement, but your master wants to see his Boy one last time.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Nev, are you saying…?”

Neville gripped his hair, twisting sharply, and leaned in close. “You said you’re willing to do what it takes to get Malfoy back. Right?” It had been an easy enough plan when he’d thought about it, and not altogether a bad idea. “Malfoy might be your submissive, but you both belong to me. I’ll negotiate with Francois, and we might have to do a bit to show him we’re serious.”

“And how do we avoid one of us being given Silver Apple again?” Ron’s pupils were dilated as he stared at Neville, his breath rough. Neville smiled at that; he could tell how Ron was affected by this. If ever a man was a switch, Ron was a perfect example. He loved giving orders, but he loved taking them just as much.

“We’ve made an antidote,” Neville said. “Which you’d have known soon enough if you’d let us know you were going in. I’d have told you to hold off until I could get it to you.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t last forever, but it’ll let us resist the influence of the potion for a few hours.”

“And if we can slip it to Malfoy?”

“If he’s been under it for days, it might take a bit longer for it to clear out of his system completely,” Neville admitted. “We might not be able to do anything until we can get him out of there. We’ll just have to see what happens after that.”

“Right.” Ron smiled weakly. “I’m not wearing a leather harness like Malfoy did.”

“Didn’t think so.” Neville’s hand drifted down, squeezed the nape of Malfoy’s neck. “We’ll get you done up properly, and your mark will never doubt that you gave yourself to me in payment for Malfoy.” He pushed Ron, nudging him off the sofa. “Go clean up and get some rest. We’ll go in tomorrow.”

To Ron’s credit, he didn’t question Neville’s decision to delay one more day. The Aurors had all become used to taking orders from Neville over the years. Harry was a great motivator, but he’d never been a great _leader_. Strangely enough, Neville was.

Which was handy, since he liked being the one in control.

#

The next night, Neville dressed with meticulous care. He chose Muggle clothing: dark blue jeans that clung to his long legs. No shirt. He caught Ron starting at him, and he smiled slightly. “Problem?”

“Won’t you be cold?” Ron had yet to change into the clothes Neville had laid out for him.

Neville crossed his arms and shrugged. “That’s what charms are for. I want Francois to know exactly what he’s dealing with.”

Ron blinked. “And what’s that?”

“A Dominant.” Neville drew in a slow breath, and when he let it out, glamours that he kept over his body slipped away. His scars were still there, as they had always been, ever since that last year at Hogwarts. Neville didn’t want to cover up his flaws, not the scars and not the faint crook in his nose from when it had been broken in fifth year. But the ink… that he covered up, because he didn’t want to risk someone from the department seeing it in a locker room and possibly knowing what it meant.

The scrollwork across his chest was elaborate, cast in magical ink that moved and flowed. It highlighted the ring in his nipple, and the small diamond there. To the average person, it was simply an intricate design. But to someone who frequented the few exclusive hard core magical D/s clubs of Europe, it signified an advertisement. A clear and permanent statement of preferences and expectation.

“I don’t get it,” Ron said. “I mean, it’s a bloody well gorgeous tattoo, and it looks brill with your scars. And I never noticed you’d had your nipple pierced. Isn’t that painful in a fight? But what’s Francois going to see in it?”

Neville smiled wryly. “He’s going to see dedication. _This_ ,” he gestured at his chest, “can’t be faked, Ron, and it’s what he was looking for. I oughtn’t to’ve let you go in without something like this, but I didn’t know he’d be looking. Not many clubs do, but apparently this is one of them.”

A part of him, the part that had known Ron since they were small, wanted to squirm under his regard. But Neville didn’t squirm, simply stood there, waiting, until he saw understanding slowly dawn in Ron’s expression. A flush spread across his cheeks, and the other man looked down. “Ah, yeah,” Ron mumbled. “You’ll, um… you’ll be much better in that spot than me, I’m thinking.”

“Ron.” Neville closed the distance between them, cradling Ron’s head in his hand, squeezing gently. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want, yeah? This isn’t your life, and it’s just a job. We need to make sure of what you’re willing to do before we go in.”

Ron pulled away and started sifting through the clothes that had been laid out. His movements were stiff, jerky as he stripped and changed. “Anything, Nev. You need to put a whip to my skin, go ahead. Can’t be worse than a Cruciatus curse, and besides, if Malfoy can take it, so can I.”

“I’ve heard Malfoy likes it.”

Ron’s gaze snapped to Neville’s, fury in his eyes. Neville raised his hands. “I’ve never seen him out, but I’ve heard rumors,” Neville said. “He was the right choice to be your submissive.”

“The problem is, I was a crap choice to be the dom,” Ron muttered. He tugged at his shirt, fingers fumbling at the buttons. “Why the bloody hell am I dressed more than you?”

“Because you’re pretty.” Neville batted Ron’s hands away, deftly doing up the buttons and tugging the too-tight silk shirt into place. “Malfoy’s pretty, too, but you wanted to show him off, right? He’s the sort that shines in the light. You, though… if we cover you up it’ll just make the blokes wonder what’s underneath. You’re fit, right?” Neville smoothed his hands over the silk, letting it go taut against Ron’s chest and abdomen. “They can see hints of it. It makes them want you more. The trousers fit your arse, but they aren’t so tight blokes’ll be thinking they can see right into your arse. And you’ll be comfortable enough when you get hard.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that for a moment he thought Ron wouldn’t notice. Then the flush spread down his neck, disappearing under the silk. 

“What makes you think I’ll get hard?” Ron asked.

Neville’s smile quirked. “Because I’m good at this, so I know you will. And because you’re going to be playing with your Boy, and I’m thinking you haven’t stopped wanting him yet.”

Ron started to tuck his shirt in, but Neville stopped him, leaving the bottom of the shirt hanging loose. Neville slipped his fingers beneath it, warm and rough against Ron’s skin, to show him why, and he felt the heat of Ron’s skin in answer.

“So. Um. What are you planning to do with me, anyway?” Ron asked.

Neville shook his head. “This isn’t something we can plan ahead. This is something I’ll have to figure out once I get a read on Francois. But you need to be ready to deal with the fact that he may want to get his hands on you.” Neville slid both hands behind Ron’s head, forcing him to look him in the eye. “It’s likely he’s had his hands on Malfoy, or had Malfoy doing shite you might not want to think about. And you need to forget about that now. Just promise me here, you’ll do exactly as I say, no matter what, and we’ll both be fine. Yeah?”

Ron swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I don’t want you to fuck me,” he said quietly.

“What about you fucking Malfoy?” Neville countered.

“In a heartbeat.” Ron’s skin stayed flushed.

“What if I have to?”

Ron hesitated. “I’d rather not, but I want him safe. And nothing should happen to him if he says no, right?”

“Right.” Neville leaned in, forehead to forehead. “This is it, Ron. If you want out of this op, now’s the time to say it. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you, Nev.”

It was a blanket permission to do anything they needed to get out of this alive. Neville knew they had to set the scene before they even arrived, that Ron had to be _Neville’s_ in the eyes of Francois from the moment they walked through the door.

They were already close, but Neville closed the last of the distance, lips light over Ron’s for just a moment, one last question in the kiss. When Ron didn’t pull back, Neville nipped sharply at his lower lip, tugging it into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue. He heard the soft groan and closed his eyes against it, trying to remind himself that this wasn’t real. He drew out the kiss, then teased that lower lip again, wanting to leave it bruised.

“Hands behind your back,” Neville murmured. When Ron didn’t move right away, Neville gripped one wrist tightly, moving it into position. “When I tell you to do something,” Neville said quietly, “you do it immediately. You either say nothing, or _yes, Sir_ , but you do not argue, nor do you stay still.” As soon as Ron stood, both hands behind his back, fingers tangled, Neville moved.

He trailed kisses and nips over Ron’s jawline, tracing paths left by a spattershot of freckles down to his throat. The skin there was soft, and easily marked. Neville didn’t want to collar Ron; that wouldn’t be believable with the story Ron had already concocted. But he wanted to show that Ron had been properly marked.

He caught the skin just above the collar, sucking it in, biting down. Ron gasped, and Neville sucked harder, making the skin red and hot before he let go. “This isn’t permanent,” he murmured, “but they won’t be able to tell at a glance.”

Neville pressed the tip of his wand to the mark he’d just made. The spell used the saliva and the intent to build the magical brand, imbuing a splash of color beneath Ron’s skin, visible only to those who knew how to look. It was a spell Neville had never used before, one he’d never thought he’d have the _chance_ to use. But here and now, it was needed, and it wasn’t as if he’d never thought about his mark on Ron’s skin before.

If things went as he’d planned, his mark would also shine on Malfoy’s skin before the night was over. It was a heady thought; Neville wouldn’t mind owning two such perfect Boys.

#

The club felt familiar, in that it was like its sister clubs throughout Europe. A little dim on the interior, candlelight and spells flickering to give an illusion of privacy in a very public place. Rich tapestries and fabrics, soft and subtle scents. It didn’t take him long to note the different groups throughout the room, to take stock of who belonged there, and who was just passing through.

Neville rested his hand on the back of Ron’s neck, fingers pressing lightly. He felt the slight nod Ron gave and followed his gaze to see a man watching them. Waiting. Neville wasted no time in showing that he was in charge, hooking his finger in the chain that ran between the cuffs circling Ron’s wrists as he tugged Ron to follow in his wake.

He knew people watched as they approached Francois. Neville’s carriage remained straight, confident. “Introduce me, Pup,” he murmured, leaning close to Ron’s ear. He felt the shiver as his breath whispered warm against Ron’s skin, and Neville hoped his Pup could keep control.

“This is Francois, Sir,” Ron said quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“You, I remember.” Francois stared at Ron for a long moment before he shifted his attention to Neville, brow furrowing. “You, I do not.” His gaze dropped to Neville’s chest, taking in the ink there. Neville smiled tightly when he backed up a pace.

“I’ve heard about you,” Neville said quietly. “And I do believe you have something of mine, and I should like it back.”

“He is not marked,” Francois replied, tone lazy despite the swift appearance of the words. “You should take better care with your toys.”

“He is mine by proxy.” Neville twisted Ron’s ear until he yelped. “This one does not believe in marks, so I have given him one of his own. This is not the first time I have had to reclaim one of my Boys after his carelessness.”

Neville couldn’t miss the way Francois’s gaze slipped to Ron. Neville tugged at the collar, moving it to highlight the fresh, bright mark. His finger trailed over it, the skin still sensitive, until he felt Ron start to shiver. “Tell me what you want, Pup,” he asked softly.

“Whatever it is you want of me, Sir,” Ron replied.

“If I tell you to please this man in exchange for our Boy?” Neville asked.

Ron swallowed, hesitating. Neville’s fingers pressed on the mark, invoking the heat of the magic, and Ron gasped. “Anything, Sir. Anything you say.”

“Perhaps we should adjourn to my private room,” Francois suggested, gesturing. “I shall have _la pomme_ brought and we can discuss his ownership.”

There had been no agreement made. Neville was no Slytherin, but he had learned how to deal properly in this world long ago. A suggestion was merely that; there was no promise to fulfill. But it nudged Francois in the correct direction.

“I am not going to—”

Neville brought Ron up short by gripping his hair tightly, yanking his head back to stop the flow of words. “You will do exactly as I say,” he murmured. “You will follow my lead if you want Malfoy safe. Are we understood?”

Ron nodded as soon as Neville released him. “Yes, Sir.” His gaze met Neville’s for a moment, then dropped away, and Neville felt something curl in his gut at the show of submission.

Once in the privacy of the back room, Francois settled on the sofa, his robes open and spread to show a lean, lithe body beneath clad only in satin pants. Neville let his gaze flick over him, then chose to ignore him. “Pup, kneel,” he said sharply, his hand pointing down. Ron dropped to his knees, leaning in against Neville’s knee so that Neville’s hand could rest atop his head.

It was a nice touch. A perfect touch, and Neville rather thought that Ron had some good instincts when it came to submission.

“Where is my Boy?”

A lazy gesture from Francois and the door opened. Malfoy stepped in, chin raised, proud and haughty. He was dressed from head to toe in a pale silvered grey, the corset clinging to non-existent curves, the skirt beneath slit to his waist. His eyelids shimmered with pale blue and sparkles, and his lips were wet and red with silver droplets.

“I am here to serve,” Malfoy said quietly. “What is it that my master wishes?”

Ron jerked at Neville’s feet; Neville twisted his hand in Ron’s hair to keep him still. Everything depended upon reading the mark, and upon leaving with both the case, and all three Aurors, intact. This was a delicate operation, and there was no room for emotions to get involved.

“Isn’t he biddable now?” Francois observed. “ _La pomme_ , show me how you would please me. Don’t you wish to touch my cock?”

Ron shivered beneath Neville’s touch, and Neville wished for a leash to keep him still.

“Of course, Master.” Malfoy dropped to his knees in front of Francois, hands on his thighs, pressing them wide as he nuzzled the soft satin that covered Francois’s prick.

“Boy.” Neville’s voice was low but resonated, just enough for Malfoy to stop, and almost turn.

“Boy!” Ron’s voice was sharper, and while Neville punished him with a quick cuff to the head, he was pleased to see Malfoy turn in entirety, staring at the two of them in confusion.

“I think you have forgotten who he belongs to,” Neville said, smiling slightly at Francois’s irritation. “It seems he still knows his master’s call.”

“I…” Malfoy’s voice trailed off in confusion.

“Not unless you are spoken to, Boy.” Neville nodded, and Malfoy fell silent, those grey eyes pale around the edges, pupils wide and dark.

Francois dragged in a tight breath, the lines of his body taut despite the casual air he affected. “Very well. We shall have to see who it is that he acknowledges as master, and that one shall own him at the end.” His smile twisted tight. “Boy, kiss the Pup.”

Ron’s gaze shot to Neville, and he nodded his acknowledgement. “Pup, please undress our Boy. Ready him.” With a gesture, the shackles fell away from Ron’s wrists, leaving his hands free.

Ron scrambled to his feet and met Malfoy in the center of the room. He didn’t hesitate, framing Malfoy’s face with his hands, drawing him in close before brushing lips against lips. There was a low groan—Neville wasn’t sure from whom—then Ron’s hands slid down, outlining the corset with his fingertips. “Fuck, that’s hot,” Ron murmured.

“Pup!” Neville snapped. “Discipline your Boy.”

Ron pulled away; Malfoy seemed dazed, standing there still with one hand raised where it had been pressed against Ron’s cheek.

“Do you wish to be disciplined?” Francois asked. Malfoy didn’t even look at him before nodding.

Neville saw the glisten on Ron’s lips, knew that Francois had done exactly as they’d expected with the Silver Apple. But he also knew that thanks to planning ahead, Francois had no control over them. Still, they had to play this through. Two games, one end point. And Neville was the only one allowed to speak.

Neville took his own place on the sofa next to Francois. He did nothing to hide his own arousal, outlined by the tight jeans. “He really is quite biddable. It is almost a pity; I rather enjoyed his snark. How did you manage it?”

“The club prepares a special brew,” Francois confided, leaning in. Neville focused on the conversation, although one eye watched how Ron forced Malfoy to his knees. How Malfoy bent his head forward, baring his shoulders above the corset. Neville’s breath caught as the crop fell, laying the first red mark across that pale skin.

“Oh?” Neville inquired. “It might be something I wish to take home with me.”

Francois’s smile grew. “It is not inexpensive, of course. Perhaps we could trade.”

“My Boy for your potion?” Neville shook his head. “I think not. You have been holding my Boy against his will, and I do not think you wish the authorities to know. The question is, how much are you willing to give me in exchange for my silence?”

Francois’s expression twisted into a moue of displeasure. “We do not indulge in slavery,” he snarled quietly. “I assure you, _la pomme_ only performs those acts which he desires.”

“It seems he desires the attention of my Pup greatly.” Neville’s gaze drifted down to where Malfoy’s hands curled in his own lap, the backs pressed against his the thick ridge of his cock. “Pup!” he snapped. “Tie our Boy’s hands above his head. Use the hook and chain provided, but have him kneel. He can pleasure you, if you so desire, once he has been thoroughly punished.”

As soon as Ron moved to obey, Neville turned his attention back to Francois. “You stole my Boy.” Neville kept his tone flat, hard. He waited, willing to take as long as he might need until Francois visibly settled back away from him. “I expect recompense, Francois.” He drawled the name, letting it linger on his tongue as if they might be friends. “Ten vials, and the return of my Boy, plus the privacy of this room for one hour after you’ve delivered the vials.”

Francois gestured and a bell rang somewhere in the distance. He stood. “And in exchange, I never see you again,” he said, voice tight. “I have no wish to fight for dominance in my own abode.” His gaze drifted again to the patterns that crossed Neville’s chest, patterns that proclaimed his experience within this world.

Neville shrugged one shoulder. “I have my own space, when I am not called to France to chase after delinquent Pups. Perhaps in the future you will delve more thoroughly into the background of any Boy you choose to steal, rather than simply trusting that all Pups are without owner.”

“He had no mark,” Francois said.

“He does now.” Flat again. Hard and sharp, the words striking until Francois stepped away.

The door opened, and a young man delivered a small case. Francois opened it, displaying the vials; Neville keyed the spell he had in waiting to record this moment; a backup for memories he might not wish to later share as evidence. He touched the vials, counting them with a fingertip touch on each one. “And this is…?”

“ _La pomme d’argent_.” The words flowed in French from Francois’s tongue, but Neville translated them. The Silver Apple.

“And it is produced here?”

That gaze narrowed. “Oui. But do not think you can continue to buy more. You have this case, and we are done. In one hour you will be gone, and I will hear no more about your Pup, nor your Boy. We are through.”

Neville snapped the case of the lid shut. “We are, indeed, unless I discover that your care of our Boy has been less than exemplary. If he is damaged, you can be assured that you will hear from me again, and no mere potion will buy my silence then.”

“Of course.” Francois bowed low, and as Neville cleared his throat, he bent even further at the waist, bending one knee slightly. He held that position until Neville cleared his throat again, allowing him to stand.

“Go,” Neville instructed, and a moment later, Francois was gone.

Neville withdrew his wand and checked the wards, changing them slightly to ensure their complete privacy. He could easily find the small chinks in the wards that would let Francois through and he sealed those. No one would observe this, nor later replay the events that occurred within the room.

When he turned his attention back his Boys, he saw that Ron had done as instructed earlier. Malfoy’s hands were shackled at the wrists, bound above his head while Malfoy knelt on the floor, swaying slightly. Ron knelt as well, hands smoothing through that pale hair as he bent in close, lips whispering over skin, kissing his forehead, his nose, his lips. Malfoy’s shoulders were striped with red, his skin flushed and warm. Ron had yet to take off his clothes, trousers tight.

Neville swallowed. He wanted this scene to continue. Whether he watched or participated, he wanted to see these Boys play with each other. But first, they needed to ensure that Malfoy was doing so of his own free will. He started to speak Ron’s name, then cut himself off, saying instead, “Pup.”

Ron looked over, pupil’s dark and wide, mouth slightly open.

Neville smiled. “Step back, Pup. I need to check our Boy.”

He moved into the space Ron left for him, large hands flat against Malfoy’s cheeks. There was no bruising evident, and no wincing when Neville touched that fair skin. Whatever they might have done, no evidence was left in clear sight, although the skirt and corset could have hidden a number of things.

Neville withdrew a small vial from his pocket and opened it, holding it to Malfoy’s lips. “Drink, Boy,” he instructed gently, lightly stroking Malfoy’s throat with this thumb as he obediently swallowed.

“Now what?” Ron asked, voice hoarse.

“We wait.” Neville sat back, legs crossed, elbows on his knees. He patted the floor next to him, his arm sliding around Ron’s back as the other man settled in next to him. “You all right?” His voice was low, concerned. He’d brought Ron into this; he was getting him back out safely.

Ron nodded. “There is nothing I want to do that I didn’t want to do before we got here.” His expression flickered into a ghost of a smile before it fled, leaving a flush behind. “Which is probably more than you ever wanted to know about me.”

“I’ve just told you that I have permanent magical ink that says this is nothing new.” Neville smacked Ron’s haunch where he could reach it, the fingers sharp against his hip. “I think we’ve gone beyond confessions, Pup.”

Ron let a sigh slip loose and leaned closer, his head against Neville’s shoulder. “Perhaps we ought to leave some of this out of the report,” he murmured.

“Pup, you and our Boy will be writing it,” Neville told him. “You’ll decide how much detail is shared, and what’s not to be told.”

Malfoy gasped, breathing suddenly harsh and rough. Ron and Neville were at his side quickly, Neville tilting his head back to check his pulse and eyes, Ron’s hand flat against the nape his neck, circling gently. “It’s all right,” Ron murmured. “I’ve got you.”

“Coming back to yourself?” Neville asked.

“When the bloody hell did you get here, Longbottom?” Malfoy blinked, his eyes still a mere sliver of grey around the pupil.

“That’s my Boy!” Ron grabbed Malfoy’s face, planting an enthusiastic kiss. Neville watched, amused, as Ron stiffened and sat back, expression uncertain. “Er. I mean…”

Neville raised one finger to his lips. “We have this room for an hour. I thought we might finish what we’d started, before I take you two home.” He left out any mention of the assignment. “If you are amenable, that is?” He glanced between Ron and Malfoy. It was a moment of truth, asking for consent without actually being able to speak of the situation they were in. He trusted that if Malfoy or Ron disagreed, they would say so now.

“I’m in,” Ron said quickly, the flush bright under his freckles.

“If this is your way of saying you’d like to fuck me,” Malfoy smirked, “I challenge you to do your worst.”

Ron’s reaction was swift, fingers gripping Malfoy’s hair, yanking his head back. “I accept,” he replied.

“Pup.”

Both Boys looked at Neville. Ron blinked. “What?”

“Do you want me to observe, or participate? If you say participate, that is the last decision you will make for the next hour.” Neville was clear in his intentions. If they wanted this for themselves, he would move to the sofa and merely watch. But if they wanted his involvement, he would be the only one in control.

Ron glanced at Malfoy, asking quietly, “Do you trust me?” When Malfoy nodded, Ron echoed the motion. “We’re yours.”

“Yes, you are.” Neville sat back, not far from them, knees bent, arms looped around his knees. “Pup, let our Boy’s wrists free, then undress him. Slowly, and neatly. Use no magic.”

Ron unhooked Malfoy’s wrists from the chains, lifting each one to his lips and kissing where the manacles still rested against pale skin, then the manacles were unhinged and removed carefully as well. “Turn,” Ron ordered, and Malfoy did, arms crossed and back presented. Ron’s fingers drifted over the top edge of the corset, where lace met red-striped skin; when Malfoy shivered, Ron kissed there as well, tongue sliding along each stripe, tracing the path of every welt.

“Get on with it,” Malfoy muttered, and Neville smiled.

“Gag him, Pup.” When Ron gave him a startled look, Neville simply said again, “ _Gag him_. This is not your decision to make, Pup. If our Boy insists on speaking when not instructed to do so, teach him a proper lesson.”

“I could silence him with a spell, Sir.”

Neville shook his head. “No magic, not now.” He pushed himself up from his seat on the floor and went to inspect the drawers of the cabinets. He found the gags quickly and selected a ring gag, which he handed to Ron, ignoring the look Malfoy gave him. “This one. I think you’ll want his mouth free for your use.”

“Fuck yes,” Ron muttered, and made quick work of wedging the gag into Malfoy’s mouth, silencing him while leaving his mouth wide open and ready. “Can I fuck his mouth now, Sir?”

Neville let his fingers drift through Ron’s hair. “Is he undressed yet, Pup?”

Malfoy knelt there still, hands loose by his sides, the gag in his mouth. The corset and skirt were still in place, and Neville nodded at him. “Once he is naked, Pup, then you can fuck his mouth. But you may not come until I tell you to.” He paused before adding, “Boy, if you can make our Pup come before I tell him he may do so, you may fuck him. Otherwise, he will fuck you.”

The sound Malfoy made, caught between strangled outrage and want, coiled deep in Neville’s gut. He wanted to see them fight for dominance, see them decide who would fuck the other. He wanted to watch them torment each other until need won through.

And of course, Neville wanted to fuck the winner.

Ron unlaced Malfoy’s corset, sliding fingers beneath the stays to caress his ribs. “Oh fuck,” Ron whispered. “I want to turn your body red. I want to make those stripes go all the way down, all across your back and arse. I want to feel your skin hot under my fingers when I’m fucking your mouth.” He shuddered, and looked at Neville. “May I, Sir?”

Neville summoned a crop from the selection hanging on the wall and handed it to Ron. “Make him scream, Pup. I want to hear him around your cock.”

Ron rushed to do as Neville had said, removing the corset and skirt, and then at another nod, removing his own clothing. Neville took in the shape of both their bodies: Malfoy, lean and pale, and Ron’s spatter of freckles that spread over his abdomen and covered his legs, as if someone had sprinkled him with brown paint.

“You are so fucking gorgeous, Boy,” Ron whispered. He pulled Malfoy to his feet, nipping at his stretched lip, kissing his throat until marks showed red. Ron bit his chest, leaving small half-moons to mark him, then pushed until Malfoy fell to his knees once more. Ron didn’t wait for him to get settled, simply grabbed his hand with both hands and shoved his prick into Malfoy’s mouth, rocking forward as Malfoy gagged around him. “Fuck…” Ron breathed.

“The crop,” Neville reminded him.

Ron wielded it awkwardly, the crop falling in stuttered beats across Malfoy’s back, the welts light and uneven. Neville moved in quickly, his hand catching Ron’s wrist, holding it tightly. “If you cannot focus enough to fuck and strike at the same time, you may only do one or the other.” When Ron stared at him, barely comprehending, pupils dark with hunger, Neville gently tugged the crop from his grip. “Tell me what he’s doing, Pup.”

“Fuck he’s… his tongue. Oh fuck. He’s using it to make his mouth tight, even though the ring’s not tight. And his throat,” Ron groaned deeply, pressing forward, his hands in Malfoy’s hair, gripping tightly. “Oh fuck, his throat is fucking perfect. He’s letting me fuck him so fucking hard.”

“Don’t come,” Neville reminded him. He twitched the crop, the tip landing across Malfoy’s bare arse, the welt rising quickly. “Boy, play with our Pup’s arse. Pup, summon the lubricant and put it on his fingers.”

“Fuck, Nev—”

The crop flew sharply, landing across Ron’s chest, leaving a bright stripe of red that connected his freckles. “Call me _Sir_ ,” Neville reminded him, and for a moment everything froze.

Ron’s gaze dropped. “Sir.”

“Summon the lube.”

Ron reached out, voice hoarse as he called the small pot to him and twisted it open, offering it to Malfoy to dip his fingers in. Ron’s grip on the pot tightened as Malfoy gripped his arse, spreading the cheeks, finger sliding down the crack to press into his hole.

“Oh fuck, Sir, I can’t… I can’t…”

“Don’t come,” Neville reminded him.

This, these boys… they were better together than anything he’d had recently. Malfoy’s eyes were closed, his body rocking as he anxiously _tried_ to make Ron come, and Ron’s whimpers and whines were pained, his grunts low and hard as he did his best to hold back.

Malfoy shifted, shoving one finger deep inside of Ron, and Ron stiffened, crying out as he held Malfoy’s head in place, thrusting hard into his throat. “Oh _fuck_.”

Neville tapped Ron’s thigh with the crop, just hard enough to sting. “Did you come, Pup?” he asked mildly. When no answer came quickly, he repeated the tap harder, sharper. “Answer me, Pup. Pull out and show me your prick.”

Ron pulled back slowly, his prick softening as he withdrew from Malfoy’s mouth, still glistening with saliva and the remains of his orgasm. Malfoy’s tongue chased it, teasing until Neville’s hand held him in place.

“Let him go, Boy,” Neville instructed. He ached, and he knew what was coming next. He knew how this would play out and who would be held down and how, and it made him almost hurt from wanting it. He quickly transfigured the sofa into a bed, ropes at the four corners. “Pup, lie down on your back. Boy, wait.”

It wasn’t just that Malfoy obeyed, but the _way_ he obeyed, his hands clasped in his lap, his knees spread to clearly show his hard cock, his head bowed to look at the floor. He was the perfect picture of submission, and Neville had to wonder how he hadn’t seen this before in them. How he hadn’t instructed Ron, and tasted this.

Ron watched him warily as he lay down, waiting while Neville stretched his hands back, then with a spell wound the ropes around his wrists and pulled them tight to the corners of the bed. “Trust me,” Neville murmured. “I would never hurt you, Pup. Not in any way you do not want me to. Let’s just see if you’re ready to be fucked. Put your heels on the bed, and bend your legs.”

When Ron did so, Neville shoved a pillow under his arse, lifting him and exposing him. He didn’t wait for Ron to settle, simply twisted his fingers in the pot of lubricant, then slid two of them inside of Ron, pressing deep and stroking hard. Ron moaned, hips bucking. “Close,” Neville murmured. “You’re close, Pup, but I don’t want our Boy hurting you. After all, he’s going to be fucking you so fucking hard, and I’m going to fuck him at the same time. I’m going to fuck you both, and it’s going to be bloody well brilliant. I want you open and loose and wet, because I don’t want him to think about it. I just want you to lose yourself in this fuck. I want you to let go.” He shoved a third finger in, and slowly managed to wedge his pinky finger in as well. Ron cried out, shifting, but Neville didn’t let up, twisting, pushing, stroking. The way Ron squirmed was gorgeous, the flush underlining his freckles all over his skin.

Neville summoned a dildo and slid it in, wanting to keep Ron stretched and full and ready. A small spell set it moving, fucking Ron with a shallow motion that didn’t quite reach his prostate. Ron twisted against the ropes around his wrists, pulling, hips rising.

“Nev—”

Neville swatted his ass hard, the handprint red against his skin. “What was that, Pup?”

“Sir! Oh fuck, Sir, just please… fuck me,” Ron whimpered.

“Do you want our Boy to fuck you?”

Ron’s head twisted to look at Malfoy, who still knelt on the floor. As if feeling his gaze, Malfoy looked up. He couldn’t speak, the ring still holding his mouth wide, but Ron saw something there and groaned. “Fuck. Yes. Let him fuck me. As hard as he fucking wants. _Please_.”

“Is that what you want, Boy?”

Malfoy nodded once, quick and sharp. At Neville’s gesture he was on his feet and joining them. Neville undid the gag, tossing it to once side before he gripped Malfoy’s chin and held it in place. “This is still under my terms,” he murmured. “I tell you when to fuck, I tell you when to move, and I tell you when to come. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Neville smiled at this obedience, this _perfect_ submission. He wondered if Malfoy had a mark that Neville had yet to find; he wondered just how true the rumours were, and how far Malfoy had gone before. He pulled the dildo out of Ron and helped Malfoy up. With Neville guiding his prick, Malfoy slipped inside of Ron’s well-lubricated hole, sliding deep with one easy stroke.

“Stop,” Neville ordered, and Malfoy did, despite the twist of Ron’s hips beneath him, anxious to be fucked.

Neville had found clips earlier, and with the two men facing each other, he knew exactly how he wanted to use them. Traditional use placed nipple clips on each nipple with the chain between, easy for a lover to tug on whenever he wanted to give a sharp twist of pain. But this time, Neville clipped one side to Ron’s nipple, and the other’s to Malfoy, and he spelled the chain slightly shorter than usual. Whenever they moved, whenever they rocked against each other or their body’s arched, they would feel that sharp tug and bright pain.

“I want to hear you both scream,” he told them. “I want to see you both pushed beyond the edge. I want to see you drop into that place where there is _nothing_ but this fuck. And when you need me to, I will pull you back.”

His fingers drifted down the crack of Malfoy’s arse, pulling the cheeks apart to reveal his hole. A single finger press, and it opened, letting him slip in to the first knuckle. Malfoy groaned, quivering, but he remained perfectly still. Neville worked him open slowly, first with a single finger, then with the first two fingers of his left hand. He waited until he had them both seated deep within Malfoy before he crooked them, seeking the right spot. He felt Malfoy jerk; when Neville stroked again, he smacked Malfoy’s arse hard with the palm of his right hand, leaving a red spot behind, and Malfoy’s breath hitched.

“Like that, do you?” Neville asked. “Place your hands over our Pup’s,” he instructed, and as soon as Malfoy did, the ropes moved to bind them together, fingers tangled, palms pressed against each other. Malfoy leaned down, capturing Ron’s mouth, kissing him hard as he swayed beneath strike after strike from Neville’s hand against his arse, and the twist of fingers inside of him.

Neville wanted that arse red, glowing and hot beneath his palms. He placed both hands on it, spreading the cheeks and feeling the heat in the wake of his spanking. As he withdrew his fingers, Malfoy’s arse was open, waiting and ready, and Neville ached for it. He opened his trousers and pulled his prick out, not bothering to do more than shove his pants down around his hips. He slicked his length quickly and let himself press in, slow inch by inch, stretching Malfoy around his thickness. Fingertips gripped the perfect red arse tight, making small white impressions as Malfoy whimpered.

“Do you want to be fucked so hard you forget yourself?” Neville whispered, mouth against Malfoy’s shoulder.

At Malfoy’s nod, Neville began.

He fucked without ceremony, without finesse. This was about power and control, about speed and force. He pushed in so hard that Malfoy rocked into Ron, driving deep into both of them with one stroke. He wrapped an arm around Malfoy’s waist, lifting him so that the chains that bound him to Ron were almost taut, swaying and tugging with each thrust. As he fucked them both, he heard their cries, heard the low gasps and grunts, the shuddering that signaled how close Malfoy was, and the whine of Ron’s hunger rising again. “Not yet,” Neville snapped, rotating his hips, trying to find the right spot inside of Malfoy to make him shiver again. “Make our Pup come first, _then_ I might give you permission to come.”

Malfoy wrapped his hand around Ron’s prick, wanking him harshly as Ron’s body bowed beneath him. They twisted together against the ropes, swaying and rocking, movements out of control. “Fuck, oh Merlin, _fuck_ ,” Ron chanted, words trailing off into unintelligible sounds and whimpers as his nipples were pulled and his cock roughly stroked. “Fuck. Oh fuck. I’m going to, oh _fuck_ , oh _please… fuck_ …” It trailed off into a scream as Ron stiffened, the orgasm drawn out of him. Malfoy stiffened immediately under Neville, clenching tight on his prick as he struggled.

Neville stilled, holding the shuddering man tightly. His fingers rolled over Malfoy’s nipple, twisting it painfully. “You are such a good Boy,” he murmured, kissing his shoulder. “I know you want to fuck our Pup. I know you want to fuck him so hard, and spill inside of him, and you held back. I’m proud of you, Boy. I think you’ll be a perfect Boy for our Pup in the future, won’t you?”

Malfoy nodded, shaking.

Neville released the spell that held their hands, then unclipped the chains from Ron’s nipples, leaving them tight on Malfoy. “He likes the pain, Pup. I’m going to fuck him, but you’re going to make him come.”

He started moving in slow, lazy strokes, not strong enough to give Malfoy what he wanted. But Ron yanked Malfoy down, one hand twisted cruelly in his hair, pulling his head to the side and baring his neck for Ron. He bit, teeth clamping down as he twisted at his other nipple, and Ron raise his hips, fucking himself on Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy whimpered, whined, still waiting, still hovering on the edge.

“Let him make you come,” Neville whispered, and he shoved in hard and deep.

Ron captured Malfoy’s mouth, swallowed his scream as he shuddered hard, clenching so tight around Neville that it was almost painful. Neville stroked through it, waiting until Malfoy was done and limp before he started to thrust again, fucking him hard until Neville spilled inside of him.

“Good Boys,” he whispered, hands sliding over both their skin. “You are such very good Boys.”

Neville pulled out, Malfoy’s arse leaking white fluid in his wake. He helped the Boys arrange themselves on the bed, curled around each other, and summoned a blanket to warm them. Neville managed to cradle them both to him, murmuring words of praise and comfort as they slowly came back to reality.

They still had time in this room, after all, and Neville would take care of the Boys. They were his coworkers. His partners on occasion, and this once, his lovers and submissives. He would always care for them.

He made sure of the wards and set a timer, then gathered them in. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Rest. I’ve got you, and I won’t let go.”

 

 

**_Now_ **

 

Draco sighs in the warmth of lying between Weasley and Longbottom—Pup and Sir. The names are mixed in his mind, intermingled and entangled, and he doesn’t mind that. Nor does he mind their nudity, nor their closeness. It all seems right, just now. For the first time in days, everything seems right.

He reminds himself of what is true.

_I am Draco Malfoy._

_My partner is Ronald Weasley._

_I am his Boy._


End file.
